


Shared Troubles

by notoneforreality



Series: QB-B3 007 Fest 2020 [17]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 007 Fest, 007 Fest 2020, Canon-Typical Violence, Ex-Military Q, Felix meets Q, Injury, M/M, Mission Fic, Q meets Felix, RAF - Freeform, Radio, Reconnaissance, Team Q Branch, shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25245400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notoneforreality/pseuds/notoneforreality
Summary: Felix runs into trouble with Bond, and then Bond becomes the trouble.At least Felix has someone to help deal with him.
Relationships: Felix Leiter & Q, James Bond & Felix Leiter, James Bond/Q
Series: QB-B3 007 Fest 2020 [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795726
Comments: 5
Kudos: 100





	Shared Troubles

**Author's Note:**

> Written for--  
> 17th July: Felix Friday;  
> Trope prompt table: Ex-military Q

Bond chucks a tiny radio at Felix and then takes off across the grounds.

“James you fucking ass!” Felix hollers at him, “What the fuck are you doing.”

James doesn’t answer. Felix hadn’t expected anything less. The radio, however, does speak.

“What is he doing?” 

Felix fumbles it, not expecting the transmission to be quite so loud, and finds the TALK button. “He’s made a run for the house. He’s almost—”

A shot rings out, and Bond throws himself to the ground, rolling and coming up already running.

“Is he hit?”

“No,” Felix tells the radio. There are another two shots. “Oh wait, maybe.”

Bond is still running, but at some point during their intermittent three years of knowing each other, Felix had given up expecting him to go down at any reasonable point.

“Can you make it across with him?” The voice is young-ish, but clear and controlled. It’s no one Felix recognises from his last jaunt across the pond.

“With him? Too late for that. To him? Maybe.”

“I’ll give you some cover. You got a straight line?”

“Yeah.”

“Close your eyes and run.”

Felix considers asking one of the fifty questions that crowds into his head, but the tone of the voice brookes no argument, so he closes his eyes and runs. The backs of his eyelids bloom orange, bright and sudden, and the detail-oriented aspect of his mind remembers the floodlights positioned around the grounds. Must be a techie on the other end of the radio, then, with some sort of control over the electrical system.

Someone grabs his arm and Felix throws a punch automatically.

“It’s me.” Bond catches the punch, and Felix opens his eyes. Bond, not shot as far as Felix can tell, nods at him. “Have you still got the radio?”

The armed security team are quiet, and Felix listens closely, trying to work out if they’re still stunned or regrouping with a new plan.

“Yes he’s still got the radio, you stupid man,” the radio says.

“Q.” Bond doesn’t beam, but his face does something close to lighting up. Felix raises his eyebrows. Bond ignores him. “Is the system down?”

“System is down and CCTV is being looped, but that’s not much use to you when there are real people trying to shoot you,” the voice — Q? — says.

“We’ll be fine,” Bond says, right as a bullet shatters the window next to his head.

The shooters are back in action.

Felix grabs him by the shoulder and drags them both down so they’re lying flat on the ground behind a low box hedge that separates the walk around the house from the lawn, just avoiding a second shot. “Hey, Q, got any tips?”

He lifts his head to squint up past the leaves, but he can’t see where the hostiles are and he’s not wasting bullets on a blind shot.

“There’s a door thirty metres to your right. I’ve disengaged the lock. I’ve been running interference on their comms but that bullet through the window will have started raising questions already, so don’t lower your guard once you’re inside.”

“Copy,” Felix says, trying to remember how far thirty metres is. It doesn’t really matter, in the end, because Bond pushes himself to his feet and leads the charge, dodging bullets as he goes. Felix follows, and they crash through the heavy wooden door into some sort of parlour.

It’s a good thing Q wanted them about not lowering their guard, because Felix’s first instinct is to relax and take a moment to breathe. As it is, he only barely gets his gun up before a young man in a pale blue suit walks into the room.

“Jesus fuck,” the kid says, his hands flying up. He takes a breath to yell and Bond crosses the room in two strides, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“Don’t,” Bond says softly.

Eyes wide, the boy nods, and when Bond moves his hand, he doesn’t try to shout.

“Where’s the study?”

“Second floor, left, first door on the right,” he babbles.

“Thanks, kid,” Felix says, moving past him to peer out into the hall. “Don’t do anything stupid and no one will get hurt.”

“Are you going to kill my dad?” the kid asks.

Felix rolls his eyes. “I just told you no one will get hurt. We’re here for information, not murder.”

He doesn’t listen to what the kid says after that, stealing out into the hall with his gun ready, making a line for the stairs. Bond’s quiet footsteps follow behind him.

Together, they creep up the steps, sticking to the edges where there’s less danger of creaking. At one point, someone walks past upstairs and they both freeze, but the steps carry on without faltering and no one shouts.

They make it to the study without further incident. The radio stays quiet, as does Bond, and Felix locates the files in the second desk drawer after jimmying the lock. Getting back downstairs is uneventful, and the parlour is still empty but for the kid, who looks at them with a pale face and nods, his adam’s apple bobbing.

“There are about twenty guns trained on that door, as far as I can tell,” Q says, the first time he’s spoken since they got into the house.

The kid jumps, looking around wildly for a third intruder.

“Well how are we getting out then?” Bond asks.

Felix’s eyes dart over to the boy, who goes grey-green and backs away. Bond kicks Felix’s foot.

“There is going to be so much paperwork for this,” Q bitches, but after a moment he says, “There’s a Tesla in the garage. I can get it round to you, and then you better do some fancy driving.”

Bond grins. “I can do that.”

He can do that. He does the driving part very well, careening across the immaculately kept grounds and ruining them, shooting straight through the iron wrought fence and dragging it a quarter of a mile before shaking it off the hood of the car. Two miles out, the radio turns itself on and Q’s voice comes through the speakers of the car.

“There’s a plane waiting for both of you at Key West International. M wants the plans back at Six to go over them before we work out our next move.”

“Would it not be easier for you to come over here?” Felix asks. The whole business their looking into is US based, which is why he’s involved, and it doesn’t make much sense to fly eight hour to the UK only to fly eight hours back again.

“I don’t fly,” Q says, firm, “and I need to see a physical copy.”

“We’ll be there,” Bond says, and Q makes a unconvinced noise before the radio drops out again.

“Works for an international spy agency and is afraid of flying?” Felix says, and Bond shoots a scathing look at him.

It’s at this point that Felix notices the growing patch of red on Bond’s shoulder. 

He probably should have noticed it earlier, yes, but first he’d been too busy shooting behind them whilst hanging half out the window, and then he’d stayed twisted around in his seat to make sure they didn’t have a tail, and then Q had taken his attention.

“Son of a bitch,” he curses, then scrabbles around, checking the glove compartment and the storage in the door to try to find something to help. “When did you get shot?”

“Running around to get in the car,” Bond says, voice blasé and unconcerned. 

(‘Running around’ wasn’t quite the right term; Bond had run to the car and then slid over the hood because he is a cliché and thinks he’s cool.)

“And you just didn’t fucking mention it?”

Bond takes his eyes off the road for long enough to aim a look at Felix that’s part confusion, part exasperation. “I’ve been shot before. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Felix says, pulling off his tie and balling it up to press it against the wound. IT’s not much, but it my help stop the blood flow.

Bond rolls his eyes. Felix presses a little harder and Bond hisses, but his arms, hands and the car stay steady.

They make it to the airport like that, with Felix twisted awkwardly over the central console to press the tie against Bond’s shoulder while he drives. When they climb out, Felix has to stretch himself out, leaning this way and that to pull at the cramps that are threatening to run up his sides.

“You look like Q’s cats,” Bond says. He carefully adjusts his jacket, using the car’s windows as a mirror, so that the bloodstain isn’t visible.

Felix narrows his eyes. Bond looks paler than usual, but he sounds coherent, and he’s walking and using his arms normally. He considers saying something, but instead just asks, “So who’s Q?”

“The Quartermaster,” Bond says, collecting the files that Felix has left on the dash and then heading for the terminal.

Are they just leaving the car here? Bond strides towards the building and Felix shrugs. It’s not his loss.

“I thought the Quartermaster was an old military guy? Major something or other,” he says when he catches up with Bond. “Sounded like a kid on the radio.”

“Age is no guarantee of efficiency,” Bond says. It sounds like he’s quoting something, but it also sounds a little defensive.

Felix thinks about how Bond cheered up upon hearing Q’s voice through the radio and raises an eyebrow. “He certainly seems efficient,” he says.

“Indeed.” The corner of Bond’s mouth twitches up.

Interesting.

It’s not hard to find the plane that’s waiting for them, and they’re up in the air in less than forty minutes. Belatedly, Felix realises that he doesn’t have any luggage. Nor does Bond; had he not brought any to the US with him, or had he just abandoned his things? Either option is equally as likely.

Bond vanishes to the back of the plane, and returns with a damp cloth pressed to his shoulder. When he moves it too quickly, there’s the slightest flicker of pain across his face, but otherwise he doesn’t acknowledge the fact that he’s been shot at all.

Dubious, Felix lets him off with it. They talk about inconsequential things, with James occasionally (or frequently, but Felix doesn’t point out how often) bringing up Q in the middle of their roving conversation that touches on cars, soccer  _ and  _ football, French architecture, freshwater fish, and Chinese food. It’s just wandering into something to do with comedy shows, when James presses his lips together, hums, and then slumps in his seat.

“Goddamit,” Felix hisses, yanking his belt off to lunge across and check Bond’s shoulder. There’s nothing he can see that suggest infection, but there’s no exit wound, and the red stain is considerably larger than before, as well as all over the cloth Bond had been holding to it.

Passed out from blood loss, then. Felix checks his watch, then leans over to watch out the window as the coast of the UK rushes underneath them. At least Bond’s only gone now, when there’s only half an hour maximum until they land and Felix can get him medical attention.

It’s twenty minutes before they land, and another five before Felix can clamber down the steps of the plane, the files in one hand and Bond thrown over his other shoulder.

There’s a man waiting as soon as Felix steps inside the terminal. He spots Felix and Bond immediately, and his face flickers, then resolves itself again.

“Mr Leiter?”

Felix grunts. “We don’t have time for introductions. I need to get him to an emergency room.”

The man gives him a look. “We are not sending a Double-oh to A&E. He’ll put half the staff out of commission. There’s a first aid kit, field standard in my bag, which will sort him out for long enough to get him back to Six.”

“He’s a stubborn son of a bitch,” Felix says, shifting to guide Bond down to the floor.

The man hums, crouching down to rifle through the huge duffle bag he’s got over one shoulder. “Are they the Nicholson files?” 

“They’re for Q,” Felix says, although he has his suspicions.

Sure enough, the man glances up for long enough to fix Felix with a brief, unimpressed look. “I am he. Just give me a moment.”

Felix watches as Q locates the first aid kit and deals with Bond’s shoulder, keeping quiet until Q looks up at him again.

“Would you mind helping me get him out to the car.” Then, almost to himself: “It’s a shame he’s such an idiot. I brought the Aston for him, specially.”

A smile tugs at Felix’s lips and he hauls Bond off the floor again, handing the files to Q and waiting until he’s adjusted his bag before striding off towards a door marked ‘staff only’.

Q leads them through the airport without even a glance of customs, emerging into the grey, damp car park, where a grey, sleek Aston Martin is waiting in the pick up zone. 

“Nice ride,” Felix says, and all but throws Bond into the back seat.

Q drives slower than Bond, and with a lot more concern for the rules of the road. Driving through London is just as much of a nightmare as Felix remembers, but they get down into MI6’s underground parking lot and then they get up into medical without much fuss. The most commotion happens just as Felix drops Bond into the bed, at which point Bond wakes up and starts to fight.

When Bond looks like he’s in danger of winning the wrestle with Felix and getting out of the bed. Q sighs loudly and steps forward.

“Double-oh Seven, stop being a prick and stay in the bloody bed.”

Bond cuts a look over at Q, but it’s a softer glare than Felix has ever seen on him, and it only lasts three second before he relents and sinks back against the pillows.

The doctor arrives, then, and Q leads Felix out into the corridor. It’s the first chance Felix gets to properly look at this new Quartermaster.

Felix surveys the man. He’s wearing slacks and a shirt and a mustard and red knitted cardigan, looking for all the world like he’s just walked out of some company’s IT support services, but there’s a solid set to his shoulders, a certain line to his jaw. Felix takes it in and grins, touching a salute to his head, palm down.

Q raises an eyebrow, but salutes back, palm out. 

“I thought so,” Felix says, “you look like you served.”

“RAF,” Q says. 

“But you don’t fly?” Felix says before his brain has a chance to catch up. It’s been a long time since he’s said anything without the explicit intention to do so, but it’s been a long sixty hours working with James Bond, and he’s tired.

He winces, but Q smiles, wry.

“My plane came down and I was hospitalised for six months,” he says. “I’ve tried to keep my feet on the ground since then.”

“Sorry,” Felix says, but Q waves him off.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Felix changes tack. “You and Bond…?”

This time, Q’s smile is abashed. “Something like that,” he says. “Sometimes he likes me enough to bring back equipment.”

Felix thinks of the tiny radio that he dropped when diving for the car, and didn’t have a chance to grab before Bond was gunning it and he had to shut the door or fall out. 

“Ah, the radio was my fault,” he says.

“The radio, maybe,” Q says, “But what about Agent Bond’s gun.”

There’s a pause.

“He had a gun?”

Now, Q’s smile is grim and vaguely shark like. A phantom thrill runs through Felix’s prosthetic. 

“Exactly,” says Q. “And that’s why he needs to listen to medical and recover quickly, because them I’m going to kill him myself, and that will be no fun if he’s already injured.”

Felix looks through the window in the door to Bond’s room, then back at Q, who looks back at him with a glitter in his eyes.

“Nice to meet you, Q,” Felix says. “I think we’re going to get along.”

**Author's Note:**

> Keep notes:  
> \--this is mostly irrelevant but in my head Bond was driving in the right seat and I had to keep reminding myself that he'd be in the left seat and so the gunshot needed to be on his right shoulder where Felix could reach  
> \--Felix just yeets Bond into the back seat   
> \--what's the opposite of brit picking? american picking? whatever no acual american has looked over this but I did use american terms even though it required a lot of deleting and rewriting  
> \--this was the most painful thing I've written for this whole fest. I don't know whether it was the plot or Felix's point of view but hot damn was this hard to write  
> \--I really wanted to work this into the fic “We got a saying in Texas: busy as a one legged man at an ass kicking contest. I, however, think I’ll do just fine.” but alas  
> \--yeah this is in the continuity where Felix has his leg bitten off by a shark (but his hand was fine bc I forgot about it shh)  
> \--Bond is a cliché all he knows is drive fast get shot and slide over car bonnets  
> \--felix is this close to strapping Bond down to a fucking hospital bed


End file.
